……We’ve Got a Woman Waiting on a Text Here!

August 20, 2013

“I’m about to lose my shit,” I whispered to Pickle in the check out line at Kohl’s. The cashier was taking forever with the customers in front of us. He was typing in a UPC code methodically while debating the sale price on a set of sheets. I still hadn’t heard from Z and I was getting antsy. No. I was more than antsy. I was going bat-shit crazy. That whole weekend was a test of my supposed commitment to The Four Agreements. I was barely holding it together. I was impeccable with my word: I told him I wanted to see him. I was trying very hard not to take it personally. I knew it wasn’t really about me. His actions were based on what was happening to him. I was trying very hard not to make assumptions which is incredibly difficult, especially when you have a thing for someone and you don’t understand why they’re not communicating with you. And I was doing my best not to take a seat on the crazy train that was pulling into the station.

Liz and I had gone to a coffee shop to work and then a little shopping. Distractions. She bought shoes and a purse. I found some earrings and harassed a mom and her teenage daughter in the shoe department. The cashier, either sensing our impatience or hearing my not too subtle warning that I was losing it, directed us to the jewelry counter where we stood for what seemed like an eternity. “Don’t these people know what condition I’m in?” I asked Pickle.

“We’ve got a woman waiting for a text here,” I pretended to shout out. I mean what’s worse than dealing with a woman who has sent out a “I want to see you,” text and not received a reply yet? A mother grisly bear rushing toward her endangered cub is not any more dangerous.

Finally we made it out. We got some lunch. I was trying to avoid the subject but avoiding subjects is just not something Pickle and I are capable of. Somehow I ended up yelling, “I waited 3 months, people.” from the passenger seat of Pickle’s roommate’s vintage VW Beetle. The people eating on the patio were not amused.

Pickle offered to go other places but I just wanted to go home and wallow in my growing uncomfortableness until it was time for my walk.

While I was in the park he finally made contact. Very casual. “Wassup. How was your day?”

I asked him if it were possible that I could talk to him in person that night. He said he was hoping to come over later. I said, “great.”

Then something interesting happened. Suddenly he was the one nervous and confused. He wanted to know what I wanted to talk about. “Now I’m nervous and worried,” he texted. I tried to alleviate his concerns but the truth is I was kind of relieved that he seemed to be freaking out. Finally I replied, “That’s how I’ve been feeling. Just get over here.”

The Z that walked in my door that night was different than the one that reunited with me just a few nights before. It was the old Z. The Z I knew and remembered. I was on the phone with my son when he came in. He kissed me on my neck. He was all smiles and laughter. Winking at me and making that funny noise with his mouth that I now see as a sign of relaxation.

He came right out and asked. “What’s going on? What’s on your mind? It’s because I haven’t been texting you or seeing you, isn’t it?”

I told him he seemed different. Not that the Z I remembered. I told him I was worried that he had changed his mind about me.

“No,” he protested. “Not at all. I haven’t even spoken to my mother in three days. I’ve just been busy…..and the cricket match and cooking for all the guys.”

He asked me more questions, prodding me to tell him what was on my mind. I was struggling.

“This isn’t easy for me, ” I said.

“What isn’t?”

“Talking about how I feel. I was married for 21 years and I never figured out how to do it,” I confessed.

“Would you rather write me a long e-mail?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “You told me once that you didn’t want to hurt me,” I reminded him. “You know that eventually I am going to get hurt, right.”

“Yes, I know.” he said. “But not for a long time.” he smiled.

I asked him to promise that if he ever changed his mind, if he ever felt differently about me, that he would tell me. Just tell me the truth. I told him I was strong enough to handle it. I made this assertion with a straight face despite the spiral of crazy I had been falling into all weekend.

As he lay with his head on my chest and I played with his hair, he promised that he would tell me the truth. Then he looked up and said, “but that’s going to happen for a very long time.”

We talked for a while. He asked me about work. He looked at the to-do list on my chalkboard and asked about each listing. He was fishing to know everything that was on my mind. Apparently I had really thrown him for a loop when I pulled a “we need to talk” on him. I found this oddly comforting.

He told me stories about the cricket match and he and his best friend being obnoxious to the other players. We laughed and even argued a bit. We were back to being ourselves. We picked up where we left off three months ago.

I was relaxed.

“I was really worried,” he said. “Your texts didn’t seem normal.”

“I don’t think I was normal,” I admitted.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He spent the night and I was once again treated to the experience of a man in my bed. I don’t need a man in my bed. I can sleep alone just fine. But sometimes it sure is nice to roll over and put your arm around a hairy chest and look over at a man who’s crazy about you.

So, maybe I over reacted. I don’t know. I’m still figuring this out. I’m still learning.